Thin, Rich, Pretty

by Harbison, Beth

  Lexi’s first impulse was to wad up the stupid references sheet and throw it at Pamela, but her second was to apologize and try to make up for this. After all, she needed a place to live, and the price was right, here.

  Financially, that was.

  Emotionally, the price was far too high.

  “You’re right.” Lexi stood up. “There’s no way this could work.” She started toward the door and reached for a paper towel from the roll over the sink, but Pamela swatted her hand away.

  “No!” Pamela shouted, as she might have to a dog. As she, in fact, probably had to a dog. More than once.

  Lexi could have argued that the least Pam could do was give her something to wipe away the blood from the wound her stupid cat had inflicted on her, but it was really obvious that an argument like that would go nowhere.

  So she left, stopping to pick up the wadded references page so she at least had something to stop the flow of blood. Clutching her purse close to her, she hurried into the neutral territory of the hallway as quickly as she possibly could. As soon as Lexi’s toes touched the carpet, Pamela had slammed the door behind her and spent a good minute turning locks and dragging the chain across the door.

  “God help anyone who comes to get you,” Lexi muttered, patting her temple and then checking her fingers for blood. There was only a faint stain. Maybe she could get away with it long enough to get to her car and use the antibiotic wipes she kept in the console.

  She went to the elevator and pushed the button, silently chanting, Please don’t let anyone be on the elevator, please don’t let anyone be on the elevator.

  There was, of course, someone on the elevator.

  It was Greg. He had a baseball hat on backwards and, in the great tradition of “workman” clichés, a ratty T-shirt and a toolbelt strapped around his waist.

  She stepped onto the elevator with him, humiliated. “Oh, good Lord. Am I going to run into you everywhere?”

  “Yes.” That dent showed up in his cheek again. It was probably a sign that he was trying not to smile. “So”—he gestured at her—“who won?”

  She didn’t meet his eyes. “The cat.”

  She could see him nodding in her peripheral vision.

  “I’m a dog person myself,” he said.

  “So am I. Now.” She wished she’d had one with her at Pamela’s. A big-toothed pit bull.

  The elevator moved incredibly slowly. It would have been an awful place for her to live, really, having to take a slow, creaky elevator to and from the apartment every day.

  Yeah, a snarky little voice in her said, a cardboard box on the street is a lot better than that.

  “Look, you should probably wipe that off.” He held his bandanna out to her.

  It was filthy. “No, thanks. I’ll be fine.”

  “I’m more worried about the kids that are bound to be in the lobby. School just let out, and you’ll scare the shit out of them if you don’t clean that gaping wound up.”

  “Oh.” She squinted and looked closer into the reflective doors. She was a mess. “I see what you mean.” She took a bottle of Purell out of her purse and put it on the corner of his bandanna, then wiped it on the side of her face. Fortunately it was easy to clean.

  “So,” the guy went on. “Do you always fight with the cat?”

  “Nope, we just met.” She squeezed more Purell onto a clean part of the fabric and cleaned the other side of her face.

  “A friend of yours?”

  “The cat or the owner?”

  “Either?”

  “Neither.” She finished cleaning herself up as the doors opened. They both stepped into the lobby and she folded the bandanna and held it out to him.

  His pale eyes were clearly laughing at her when he declined the return of his bandanna. “No thanks. Consider it a party favor.” He smiled, and she had to admit, it was kind of nice to see him, especially after the insanity she’d just been through. She was getting used to his face, she guessed, and that familiarity was somewhat comforting.

  She looked at it and shrugged. She couldn’t really expect him to want the bloody thing back. “I’ll clean it and leave it for you at the house.”

  He laughed outright. “Blondie, it looks to me like you’ve got more important things to worry about.”

  “Thanks.” But she had to smile. “How blunt of you.”

  He splayed his arms. “Just being honest.” He cocked his head. “So what were you doing up there, besides fighting with a cat and not being friends with the owner?”

  “I was looking at an apartment.”

  “Ah.” He nodded slowly. “I had a feeling you might be looking for a place. Not that it’s any of my business—”

  “No, it’s really not.”

  “—but what are you looking for? You want a condo or were you looking to share or what?”

  “It’s none of your business.” She raised an eyebrow. “Like you just said.”

  “True. Are you buying or renting?”

  She gave him a withering glance. “Renting. Your employer has thrown me out.”

  “Well, actually, she’s not my employer—she’s my client. And I’m not surprised. When I first met her, she told me she didn’t like certain minorities and hoped I would try to limit their presence on my team.”

  Lexi rolled her eyes. She knew exactly which minorities he was referring to—for some reason, Michelle and her friends didn’t have any problem with being bigoted at all. “What did you say?”

  “I told her she’d have to hire someone else.” He shrugged. “I guess she didn’t want to do that.”

  Lexi just bet she didn’t want to do that. In fact, Michelle probably had plans for Greg himself when she got back.

  It felt good to know he wouldn’t comply.

  “Look,” he went on. “I know this probably isn’t what you’re looking for, but I’ve got a room to rent in a house a couple of miles from your place. The rent’s cheap.” He named a price. “But there’s a catch.”

  She frowned. It was too cheap. “Must be a hell of a catch—what is it?”

  “The catch is that I need help fixing the place up to sell. Little cosmetic things, like painting and cleaning. I had one of the guys on my crew lined up to do it, but he got engaged and moved in with his girlfriend.”

  Lexi was skeptical. “Surely you’ve got ten other guys who could step in and take his place.”

  He looked at her for a moment, then said, “Yeah, you’re right, it’s a dumb idea.”

  “No, wait, I didn’t mean it was a dumb idea, only that you’d need . . . references . . . and—” She stopped. What did she mean? It wasn’t like he was some freak, trying to get her into his clutches. If he were dangerous in any way, he’d already had ample opportunity at her father’s abandoned estate to do her harm (something Michelle should have thought of before sending workmen to a house where she knew Lexi would be alone—or maybe Michelle had considered that, she thought cynically).

  Anyway, Greg was offering her the chance to save a bundle on rent in exchange for the kind of grunt work anyone—even Lexi—could do in their off time.

  “Where is the house?”

  He told her an address. She knew the area well, as it was close to the locks on the C&O canal. She and her friends used to hang out there a lot during high school, drinking beer, as it was remote. More so then than now, she was sure.

  “And how long will the rental term be?”

  “That I don’t know. It could sell at any time, theoretically, though in this market . . .” He flattened his hand and tipped it side to side.

  Even if it were for a couple of months, that would buy her time and save her the money she thought she’d have to spend on the extended-stay hotel. “I’ll take it!”

  He smiled. “Cool. So, if you’ll just jot down a few references . . .”

  16

  Holly gave a lot of thought to what she’d said in her pep talk to Nicola because, although she believed every single word she’d said to Nicola
, she wasn’t living that way herself at all.

  Where she’d told Nicola to own who she was now, and wear it proudly, without regard to how she’d ever looked in the past or how she might look in the future, Holly was walking around almost twenty pounds lighter but with an apologetic posture.

  It was tempting to blame Randy.

  After all, she’d lost all this weight because of him, really, and he barely seemed to notice her at the end. If anything, he seemed to be paying less attention in the weeks right before he broke up with her.

  Surely that was her imagination.

  Nevertheless, Holly had been schlumping around as if her very existence were an imposition to him, while she was yelling at Nicola—actually yelling at one point during that conversation—that she should be proud of who she was, regardless of anything else.

  Well, why wasn’t Holly following her own advice?

  If she were her own best friend, she’d have some prime words for the way she was acting.

  Lacey had.

  And Lacey had been right to a certain extent.

  So, with that in mind, Holly decided that she had to do the very thing she would have advised any of her friends to do in the same situation: She had to make herself feel great.

  Of course, that was easier said than done. She’d left Randy a message earlier to find out if they could talk about the breakup and maybe try again to work things out. But he hadn’t called back yet. So Holly was telling herself that, in contrast to how she’d usually be, she was going to just roll with it and let whatever happened happen.

  Que sera sera.

  Meanwhile she was going to go to the mall to get some new clothes and makeup and whatever else it took to make her feel good about herself, damn it.

  Things didn’t go great at Nordstrom. More than sixteen pounds was significant weight loss, but she still wasn’t Brass Plum material. She tried on a couple of things that looked drapey and Chico’s-y on the hanger, only to be alarmed at the way her body and underwear battled for prominence just beneath the fabric.

  So it was with some resignation that she left Nordstrom and went to Sephora.

  Sephora always made things seem right.

  “Hi! Can I help you find anything tonight?” This question was the same every time she came into the store, always asked by some gorgeous girl with perfect makeup and the kind of willowy figure that looked great in the tailored black Sephora uniform.

  “I’m just browsing”—she looked for the name tag—“Lexi. But thanks, I’ll let you know if I need anything.”

  “Oh.” Lexi looked a little disappointed. “Well, I’ll be around if you need anything. I’d be glad to do a demo or a makeover if you wanted to try something new.”

  “Thanks.” Holly went to the mascara center and was immediately lost. There was a display tree with at least twenty different mascaras on it, each one with a description that made it sound like the greatest product ever invented. “Um . . . Lexi?”

  She didn’t hear her.

  “Lexi!”

  The girl turned, looked at her, smiled, and for just a moment, Holly felt like she was experiencing déjà vu. Something about Lexi was really familiar, but she couldn’t quite place her.

  “What can I do for you?”

  “I was looking for a good mascara and”—Holly gestured at them—“apparently they’re all good, according to their descriptions.”

  “They want you to think they’re all good.” Lexi raised an eyebrow. “But it really depends on what your mascara needs are.”

  “My mascara needs?”

  “Sure. Do you need lengthening? Curling? Thickening?” Holly scrutinized her. “Or, maybe, would you say . . . all three?” She pulled a Dior tube off the display.

  “Actually, what I want more than anything else is a mascara that won’t come off under my eyes and make me look like a panda at the end of the day.” Holly reached for one that said it WON’T SMUDGE. EVER.

  “Then you don’t want that one. It’s total crap. Twenty-six dollars, and you look like a panda within two hours.” Lexi slipped the Dior and the other back in its slot and pulled out another one. “What you need is tube technology.”

  “Tube technology?”

  “Yup. This stuff wraps a little tube around each lash and then dries like”—she snapped her fingers—“like rubber cement or something. Well, not rubber cement, but like that glue you use when you’re a kid that dries and it will kind of hold things together, but if you touch it, it rolls off?”

  “How’s everything going over here?” interrupted an officious-looking little woman with way too much blue eye shadow. She appeared to be the manager, or someone who thought herself to be an authority, because she gave Lexi a quick once-over, but when she turned her attention to Holly, her brows relaxed and she pasted a false smile on. “Do you have any questions?”

  Behind her, Lexi’s face reddened, but she didn’t say anything.

  So Holly did. “I’m sorry, maybe you didn’t see, but I’m already working with someone.” She gestured toward Lexi.

  The woman, whose name tag identified her as garda, whispered to Lexi, “You just called one of our products ‘total crap.’ I heard you.”

  “Well, it is. And it’s overpriced.”

  Garda gave Lexi a dismissive glance and said to Holly, “She’s new. . . .” She let that dangle, as if it explained why she felt like she just had to jump in the middle of things and humiliate her employee.

  “Hm. I’d never know it. She’s really well versed in the products and honest, which I appreciate.” Holly gave a tight smile. “Thanks, anyway, though.” She looked to Lexi, and said, “Sorry, where were you?”

  Garda turned on her heel and left, practically harrumphing as she went.

  “Thanks,” Lexi whispered. “She’s been doing that all night. Most of the time, people start talking to her instead of me because she’s so”—she shrugged—“forceful, I guess.”

  “Is she your boss?”

  Lexi shook her head. “But I think she thinks she is.” She gave a quick, dazzling smile, and again Holly had a strange sense that she knew her. “There’s always at least one girl like that in every room, hating anyone who might steal her thunder, even if it’s just because she knows more about shampoo.”

  “It’s pretty obvious who knows more about makeup between the two of you.”

  Lexi laughed. “Well, thanks. I think.”

  Holly felt sorry for Lexi. Now that Holly got a better look, she could see that Lexi was a little older than the other girls working there. She might be late twenties or early thirties versus the average twenty-one that everyone else seemed to be. But she looked fantastic—better than the rest of them.

  Without interference from the likes of Garda, customers would probably gravitate toward Lexi, given the chance.

  “Anyway, about the mascara,” Lexi went on, unwrapping a disposable mascara brush and dipping it into the tube, “it coats your lashes and then dries, so when you wash it off, it comes off in chunks instead of liquefying.” She grimaced. “I’m not describing this very well, but honestly, it’s awesome stuff. Because it dries that way, it will never, ever rub off under your eyes or on your clothes, or his clothes, or anywhere else. It’s weird but cool.” She handed the brush to Holly.

  “It does sound weird.” Holly brushed it over her lashes.

  “New Japanese technology.” Lexi laughed. “That’s what they say, anyway.”

  Holly blinked and looked in the mirror. It was nice. “And it really won’t come off under my eyes and make me look like a panda?”

  Lexi held up her hand. “Girl Scout’s honor.”

  “Hm. Can I do the other eye?”

  “I’m already on it.” Lexi handed her another brush. “I always had to do both, too. When I was just a customer, I mean. I hate it when they’re stingy and let you do only half your face so you have to either buy the stuff and get symmetrical or look like an idiot all the way home.”

  “Me, too.” Ho
lly leaned in to do her other eye. “So is that why you work here? Because you shopped here all the time and needed the discount?”

  “Actually, I work here because my father died and my stepmother kept all his money and I had no other skills beyond shopping for makeup and wearing clothes I can no longer afford.” She gave a laugh. “That’s my new thing. Telling the truth.”

  “Bold.”

  “I know, right?” Lexi laughed and handed Holly a shadow brush. “Try this on your eyelids. I think it will really bring out the green in your eyes.”

  “I barely have any.”

  “That’s why you need to bring it out.” She waited while Holly smoothed on a golden brown shadow that was so obviously her perfect color that she decided she would trust anything else Lexi said. “Did I mention that my father’s wife gave me a week to move out of the house I grew up in, so now I’m living with a guy who drinks beer for breakfast and wears wifebeaters with a straight face?”

  “Beer for breakfast?”

  “Practically.” Lexi made a face and handed Holly a round sponge. “He drinks beer, anyway. I think he even makes it in the garage.”

  Holly looked at the sponge. “What do I do with this?”

  “It’s Lorac’s cheek stamp. The coral looks good on almost everyone. Here.” She dabbed it on the apples of Holly’s cheeks, and Holly mentally added it to her shopping bag. “But I’ll give him this,” Lexi went on. “He gave me a rent I can afford in exchange for me helping him fix up his house, even though I am clearly not cut out for it.”

  Holly looked at her. “So you like him?”

  “He’s okay.” Lexi shrugged. “A whole lot better than Stepmother Dearest.” She handed Holly a Q-tip with red goo on it. “Try this. Dolce Vita lip gloss. It’s my favorite.”

  Stepmother Dearest. Holly had heard that one before. Who was it that used to say it?

  Wait a minute—

  Holly straightened and looked at her, Q-tip still in hand.

  Really looked at her.

  “It’s not so dark when you put it on,” Lexi said, misunderstanding Holly’s expression. “Seriously. It’s pretty neutral.”